The Western winds brew; for it forms the canyons we see,
Whose Greatest Walls made of minute grains and debris,
With voices, that engulf the men a'near, these Sirens rest,
Only to forsake in the earnings of naive tourists at best.
For that canyon was but a result of a century of score’s wind,
That brew and brew from dawn to night; such a cycle it’s been.
Until the inevitable comes, Something that one can foresee not,
Quivers and Quakes, the ground can live not this plot.
Oh, for twelve hundred years, these canyons rest at peace,
For what once brew and brew upon the walls, must now cease.
What takes the greatest time to build, falls to oblivion in a moment’s time,
And to reform what once was, is but a stairway unyieldingly to climb.
Far from such place, upon the greenest fields lives the Great Oak Tree,
Whose limbs nest hundreds of creatures living in harmony and glee.
Have we been here before, say three centuries, would we see this not,
For such Great Oak was but a seedling, who against the weather it faught.
For that single tree was but a result of three centuries of nurture,
Through the fiercest weathers and heavenly storms may it endure.
But endure can it not, the axe that he wields upon his hand,
For soon will this Great Oak Tree fall upon this burdened land.
Oh, for three centuries time, had this tree bore the lives of many,
And what used to be hundreds, are now down to a mere twenty.
So another seedling must we place upon this dreadful lot,
But never the same will it be for these mere twenty that died not.
Now, in my backyard lives a flower, whose beauty is great and true,
And whose petals possess the color of the radiant sun as it grew.
And have we been here before, say prior a hundred days,
Would we have seen nothing but a seedling with nothing to appraise.
For that single flower was but a result of numerous days of nurture,
Through the fiercest and unpredictable New England weathers may it endure.
But endure can it not, the foolishness of her and the carelessness of her foot,
For at rest forever in the lonesome soil, had it to eternal sleep she put.
Oh, like trust, do these things take the greatest time to build, only to shatter in a moment’s time...
A poem on the breaking of trust.